"ADMIT ONE"

Star (Christchurch), Volume XLIV, Issue 194, 17 August 1931, Page 14

"ADMIT ONE"

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Sydney Horler

CHAPTER XVI. The Curious Experiences of Charles Whittle. Charles Whittle had had a half-smile on his face when lie left that room in the Curzon Street house, but once on the pavement he became very serious indeed. That chance discovery at the inn had guided him right. It had'been an amazing piece of luck, and he had been able to recognise Mrs. Aubyn St. Clair immediately ; this leader of London society was the same woman who had been mixed up in that notorious murder case on the trans-Atlantic liner Carpanthia when he had been returning to New York three years before. She had been travelling under a very different name then, and no one appeared to be aware that she was a well-known personage in London’s Mayfair, but his job had given him a remarkable memory for faces, and he had no possible doubt it was the same person. A curious affair, in many ways. Officially, the man had been supposed to have committed suicide by falling through his porthole two nights out from New York. There had been reasons why the New York police had not made too many close inquiries after the Carapantliia had berthed. Lowenstein was a close friend of the notorious gentleman gangster Crowle. A very close friend. And he had been many other things as well. Lowenstein, without any reasonable doubt, was connected with the Guinin outfit who had flooded South America with bad paper. His ways at that time had approached very closely those of Bircliall, alias Philip Crane, who was now in EnglandThe puzzle was beginning to fit; he could now see the pieces falling into places; this woman, who called herself Mrs. Aubyn St. Clair, but who, to the underworld, was known as The Empress —-he had Melton’s word for that —had been seen talking to Lowenstein an hour before the man’s loss was reported. Indeed, one witness had been ready to swear that she was actually in his cabin. She had got away with that, but, apparently, had not learned wisdom; for here she was, intimately allied with another forging outfit. For that was the correct designation of the crowd down at the White House. And that other woman—the one with the striking red hair. Somewhere at the back of his mind, he had a vague feeling that he had seen her before. True, it had been just a-fleeting vision he had had as she left the room immediately upon his entry. All the while he had been thus cogitating, he had remained practically stationary a few yards away from the house. But now, having made up his mind what action to take, he lit a cigarette and began to walk quickly away. He had scarcely taken a few steps, however, before a woman passed him. Instantly, he recognised her as the companion of The Empress. He was wondering whether he should accost her, when she half-turned, stopped, ancl then actually spoke to him herself. “Got what yqu wanted, Mr. Dick ?” she asked. He smiled at her. “My name’s Bartholomew,” he said. “Come off it. You’re an American ‘dick,’ and I want to know what you were doing in that house just now.” He noticed that her face was flushed, and that her eyes were brighter than a nornial woman’s should have been. Charles Whittle had had considerable experience of criminals, and he realised that this woman was either under the influence of dope or that she had recently been put to a considerable mental .strain. A thought came: Perhaps she had quarrelled with the Empress? “Are you a friend of Mrs. St. Clair?” he asked. “What’s that to do with you?” “It may be a lot to do with you, young lady,” he said sternly; “you can* take that from me.” “Hot air!” she scoffed. “Perhaps—perhaps not. Anyway, if you’d like to see me some time to-mor-row, ring up Metropolitan 0177, and ask for Mr. Bartholomew. Don’t forget— Mr. -Bartholomew.” With that, he raised his hat, signalled a passing taxicab which had just come from the direction of Piccadilly, gave the driver an address, and got" into the vehicle. He gave no backward glance as the cab sped away. Whittle at Scotland Yard. Within twenty minutes of leaving the Empress, Whittle was sitting in a room on t the third floor of London’s Police headquarters. The official facing him was a grey-haired, grim-faced man of late middle-age, whose downward droop of the upper lip gave his mouth a curious satirical expression. “Well, Whittle? And how’s the Land of the Free —free for murders, I mean; with no questions asked, and no license required.” Detective Inspector Bodkin’s speech was in keeping with his sneering mouth. Whittle, who had never liked the man during a casual acquaintanceship which extended over ten years, kept his temper. He had asked to see Bodkin’s superior, but Superintendent Watson “America’s all right,” he replied. “It’s this side that wants looking after. What would you say if I could put you on to a really first-class case, Bodkin ?” “I should laugh!" was the answer. “Laugh, eh! Well, if the Press boys get hold of a big headline sensation within the next few days, and readers write in wanting to know what Scotland Yard’s been thinking blame “What’s all this rot' you’re talking. Whittle ?’* “It isn’t rot—it’s the truth. I’m over here on a sort of holiday—well, I call it a holiday—but I’ve happened to run up against something big outside my usual line.” He had not intended to take this action, but his hand had been forced. After the previous night’s events at the Jolly Sailor liinf he realised very vividly that, it was impossible for him to carry on with this thin® alone. They had got hold of Crane, and he was playing a lone hand. Although his employers in New York had intimated that they would prefer for the police to be kept out of it, yet, on the other hand, they had given him full permission, if circumstances necessitated him doing so, to go to Scotland Yary—or, indeed, to the police chiefs of any country into which his investigations led him. . It was bad luck having to interview this man, but, nevertheless, as a matter of plain duty, lie felt he had to state “Well, what’s it all about?” inquired Bodkin, the sneer very pub-able now. “There's a village in Kent r-Ued ]\ fondling,” started the American briskly; “it’s only a few miles from Hytne. just

outside this village, there’s a largish place named ‘The White House.’ Two men are being kept prisoner there.” “Go on—this sounds funny.” “Funny or not, it’s the truth.” “Who are the men?” “One of them is a friend of mine, a young aeroplane designer. He works for liis uncle, Sir Timothy Hadden, in C'ornThe eyes of the detective-inspector opened wider. “What’s he doing at Handling?” “That’s a long story. But he’s in that house, kept there against his will. It’s a clear case of abduction. He and I were staying last night at Handling at an inn called ‘The Jolly Sailor.’ About three o’clock, the place was attacked and he was taken away. I came to London as soon as possible to get help—there is a strong guard and I had little chance of doing much on my own.” Bodkin smiled in a manner that dis figured his already unpleasant face. “You seem to be busy,” he remarked: “weren’t you ringing us up the other night about something? A fellow called Crarte ?” “His real name is Birchall,” supplied the other. “Well, Crane or Birchall, what’s he got to do with you? Aren’t you over here on a holiday?” “I am—and I’m not. I rang up the other night to know if this crook, Birchall, had been traced to London. He was clever enough, let me remind you, to give you the slip at Southampton. Watson said he would let me know.” The speaker leaned forward. “You don’t want me to tell Watson that you’ve given me the Herry Ha! Ha! do you? Because I’ll tell you this, Bodkin; in the hope of making me look a fool, you're • running a pretty grave risk of neglecting your duty.” “I am, am I?” Whittle nodded. “You are—and you can take that as the straight goods. Perhaps, before we go any further, you'd like to look at this.” Fie pulled out a pocket book and from it took a paper. Smoothing this out, he laid it before the Scotland Yard official. Bodkin’s manner underwent a change as he read the few lines of typewritten matter. “Why didn’t you show me this at the beginning?” he demanded. “Because I gave you credit for a little intelligence,” was the shattering reply; “you’ve known me now for over ten years, and yet you have the d — gall to think that I’d come here on a cock-and-bull errand. Now, then, are you going to see to this Handling affair, or not?” Before Bodkin could reply the telephone on his desk rang. “Excuse me,” he said, with a belated attempt at courtesy. “Carry on being a copper,” was the smooth reply. Bodkin scowled, but the next moment his attention was occupied with the words that came over the wire. “Who do you say you are?” he asked. And when the reply came: “Do you mind repeating that?” He listened for a few more moments and then, drawing a pad toward him, scribbled a few pencilled notes. Then, with a final “I’ll certainly be along, madam,” he replaced the receiver. “This a love affair of yours?” asked Whittle, who thought it was his turn to jibe. “I was speaking to a nun,” was the answer. “Naughty man! I thought nuns lived within four walls and never had any talk with anyone—let alone a coarseininded copper like you!” “Don’t try to be funny; that message was serious. I couldn't quite get the full hang of it, but it’s something about a girl who’s supposed to be threatened by a gang of crooks and whose father is in a liouse at Handling.” The amusement left the American’s face. Whittle was now keen and intent. “Which proves that what I’ve just been telling you is something more than hot air,” he said. Bodkin leaned back in his swivel chair. “We get some funny people telephoning us here; but the Mother Superior of a convent is quite new.” He rose and took from a hook behind the door a bowler hat that badly wanted brushing. “I’m going along to this place now,” he went on. “If you like, you can come too.” “f do like,” replied Whittle. He knew the other did not want liis company, but this fact merely increased his desire to see for himself the girl who was to supply another missing link in the mystery. (To be continued daily.)